


A Ghost In The Fog

by Duckie_Nicks



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-03-24
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:19:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,874
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Duckie_Nicks/pseuds/Duckie_Nicks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After a tragic loss, Mary begins to see unusual things around Downton Abbey. Is this the result of grief, or is there something darker at work? Mary decides to find out. Set after "A Journey To The Highlands." Eventual Mary/Matthew. Warning: character death. CHAPTER 2 IS UP!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Death

**Author's Note:**

> Author's Notes: There are spoilers for the s3 Christmas special, so if you haven't seen it, I wouldn't read this. There is also a character death at the end of this. With the exception of this first chapter, every other chapter will be told from Mary's point of view.
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own the show.

Downton Abbey was the closest estate to the road, Haxby Park more than twenty minutes away by foot, and it was not unusual for a confused motorist to ask the nearest footman for directions. This very phenomenon had caused Robert ambivalence for as long as he could remember, for, though he had a duty to be polite and acquiescent when possible, the undo burden it presented to his staff was typically unwelcome. Not surprisingly Carson had been the most opposed to the continued existence of said road, though he like Robert understood that the dirt path would remain, protested or not. And so nothing had ever been done about the nuisance, and an uneasy détente settled across the area. Yet when a young man came bursting through the doors of Downton, this was too much to tolerate.

Robert was in the midst of starting another drink. Afternoon inebriation was not a habit of his, but the birth of his grandson, the continued promise of his line, and the certainty that Downton Abbey was secure made him happier than he'd ever believed possible. He had been saved from ruin. Cora had forgiven him. The treachery of Sybil's death loomed in the background, as much a physical presence as if his youngest and sweetest were in the room celebrating with them. His grief gave him pause, finger trailing the lip of his glass before he decisively took a sip. She would not want him to be sad though, not today, he told himself.

He looked over to Cora, whose uneven smile suggested his thought was a shared one. His hand longed to caress hers, but his fingers failed to move. With the Dowager in the room, he had no interest in provoking her insight, which he feared this would. Mama was a full glass ahead of him, and her wisdom had a tendency to become barbed when mixed with a certain amount of drink. For this particular reason, Robert was almost pleased when a young man could be heard shouting in the hallway. Seizing the welcome distraction, Robert excused himself with a thin-lipped smile and left his wife to deal with his mother in the study.

He was not prepared for the sight that greeted him as he exited the room.

"We must make the call!" the young man shouted, almost frantic. "You must let me get the phone."

Carson, who must have found the yelling the definition of rude, held him back. "You cannot come into Downton Abbey in your current state," he said firmly. "You will need to wait here." The young man pushed back as best he could, but he was no match for the taller and larger Carson. "You must stay –"

"No!" There was another attempt to shove Carson out of the way.

This time Robert saw the blood.

Perhaps fear was the appropriate response, but he didn't feel afraid.

"Excuse me," he interrupted, making his presence known. "What is the meaning of this intrusion?"

Carson stiffened and pulled away from the man. "I apologize, My Lord."

"There's no need, Carson," Robert dismissed. The noise had originally captured his attention, but it was of less concern to him now that he could see the source of it. To the nameless, he said, "But surely, my dear fellow, there is no need to –"

"I'm sorry, My Lord, but we must hurry. There has been an accident, and I am afraid he will die if we do not get help immediately." The rudeness of the interruption no doubt galled poor Carson. The color of his face matched the shade of red smeared along the younger man's hands. Not even the threat of death could shake Carson's belief in decorum.

Robert's curiosity, however, left him more yielding. "Who will?"

The question seemed frivolous and inappropriate. As Mrs. Hughes, apparently also drawn by the noise, mentioned that she would call for help, he recognized that his own response was a testament to the shortcomings in his lordship. He had been born a leader, but leadership was not a natural quality in him.

As if to reinforce his failures, the man answered, "It's Mr. Crawley. He is gravely injured."

There were no questions, no hesitations from that point onward. As it had during the war, Downton Abbey became alive with new purpose. Mrs. Hughes darted for the telephone. Carson hurried to find Branson to take Robert to Matthew. O'Brien, wicked as she was, would tell the woman she was uncommonly devoted to, Cora and by extension Robert's mother as well. Edith no doubt would aid the young man in washing his hands. Everyone had a role.

Robert just hoped his would not include telling his eldest child her husband was dead.

* * *

He had seen death in war. He had watched it come into his home and claim his daughter. This was different.

With Sybil, there had been shock that Clarkson could be right, that Sybil could be in real danger. Because of that, there had been hope. As if providence had promised that senseless death could not come to a young woman, to a _Crawley_ woman, Robert had believed until the end that she would pull through. If she could become a pants-wearing, nursing suffragette and marry the _Catholic_ chauffeur, surely this twenty-four year old, this _lioness_ could best childbirth, illness, _anything_. But instead, it was the first and to his recollection only instant where his belief in her had led to his indescribable disappointment. It had taught him God had made no such bargain with his family.

From the second Robert cast sight of Matthew's broken body and the destroyed car, he dared not hope for, much less anticipate, survival.

A man was at Matthew's side, presumably the driver of the other car. There was a gash on his forehead peaking beneath his cap where he must have hit the steering wheel. Surely in pain, he was too focused on trying to push the car off of Matthew's body. The face looked familiar, someone Robert had seen before, but the horror of what had happened prevented Robert from remembering the name – not that it mattered either way.

In that moment, of utmost importance was freeing Matthew so that his life might be spared. It was obvious that such a task might prove impossible. The way the blood poured out of his ear and down the side of his pale face was damning in its implication. His unconscious body and the unnatural angles it was currently twisted in left little hope that he might turn out all right. But united in one goal, no longer bound by their differences, the three men – Robert, Branson, and the driver – began to push at the car.

The uneven ground made the work harder. The ruined vehicle was heavy enough, but Robert found himself unable to get foothold that would give him leverage. His efforts were ceaseless though. However unlikely rescue and recovery were at this point, concession was not an option.

He couldn't fail Mary.

He couldn't fail the man who had saved _him_.

His hands pushed on the car, Matthew at his feet. Short fingernails scraped against the ruined paint of the vehicle, and out of the corner of his eye, Robert could see Branson straining with similar effort.

"On three," Robert panted. "We must work together."

They didn't succeed. The car barely budged. Again they tried – and several times after that. Each attempt resulted in failure, in their desire to succeed. Every renewed effort left them a little more tired, and defeat crept in as quietly as this catastrophe had. The three slowly became divided. Timed pushes and pulls devolved into the individual struggling to be the hero.

It wasn't until the ambulance and several of the staff, Jimmy, Alfred, and some of the others, came to their aid. Multiple hands joined together, the car was slowly pushed off of Matthew's lifeless body. No one paid attention to the sound of the vehicle careening into a tree nearby. All Robert could hear in his head were the minutes, the seconds that had passed that Matthew had been left to die.

As the ambulance was loaded, Robert was determined not to predict the outcome. Survival seemed unlikely, but the alternative was one he couldn't bear to consider. He knew it was possible… _probable_ , he corrected. Unlike with Sybil, he understood death recognized no class, no privilege, no age; no bargains had been made with God Himself. Comprehension, however, was a great deal from acceptance, and Robert was not ready to rehearse what he would say to Mary should the outcome be negative. Out of selfishness perhaps, he chose intentional ignorance over the everlasting pain that would come with defeat.

But if blindness were his aim, Clarkson seemed _determined_ to thwart his success. Long after he'd seen Matthew, Clarkson slipped out of the room Matthew was in.

"He's alive. Just barely, but he is alive."

Robert bowed his head, momentarily allowing himself to feel relief. "Thank you. That is… good news."

"I'm afraid it's not that simple, Lord Grantham. There is considerable trauma to the head. I don't wish to tell you that he will succumb to the injuries. As we both know, I have been wrong about his will to thrive before."

The accuracy of Dr. Clarkson's medical prowess evoked both the best and worst Robert's memory had to offer.

"It is possible that he will live. _Possible_. But I must be clear: we are not talking about _if_ there will be complications. Those are _guaranteed_. The question would be how severe, how _much_ the quality of his life has decreased."

Robert wished not to know this, understanding that he would have to say the same things to Mary and how that would break her heart. Of course, her sadness was the only real given in the situation. Matthew might live or die, but either way, Mary's life would never be the same.

"I understand," Robert said.

Then much to his surprise, Clarkson revealed, "One thing you should be aware of: he is beginning to rouse."

Although his mouth fell open in shock, Robert was hesitant to believe that that was a good sign. "That's amazing," he uttered, though his tone contradicted his words. They sounded hollow.

"I'll let you talk to him – but only for a moment."

Robert nodded his head. "I thank you for that. I will try to be brief."

"I have held off this long, because he is confused."

"Well that's understandable. He's suffered quite a blow."

"My medical opinion is that this will be your last conversation," Clarkson said heavily.

Robert didn't allow himself a reaction to that information. A reality he had been aware of all this time, it was mere confirmation Dr. Clarkson was offering in that moment. More than that though, Robert had been taught emotions were messy business, that they made no difference at all, and he knew that any sadness he might have felt could wait.

Until Matthew passed.

"He is in pain. We will need to sedate him further soon," Dr. Clarkson explained. "You may not comprehend what he is saying. His thoughts are…." He stopped, as though he didn't want to spend his time reiterating that Matthew was confused. "Lord Grantham, I cannot tell you what to say."

"Speak your mind please," Robert said plainly.

"This is your time to tell him anything you might not have told him before. I'll take you to him now."

Robert hesitated. He wanted to be sure Clarkson understood. "I wish to keep his condition private for the time being. Specifically, I would ask that my daughter not be informed until she can be presented with absolute certainties of her husband's condition."

He would soon realize that this was just the beginning of not telling Mary everything. He would learn the burden of secrets. But in the moment, Robert was relieved that Dr. Clarkson agreed with him.

The feeling disappeared the second he saw Matthew.

Robert was unprepared for the sight. As bad as it had been on the road, it seemed worse now. There was life in Matthew's eyes, yes, but he looked around unseeing. The blood had been cleaned off his body, but his skin was paler than it had been. Robert had seen many men injured and dying. He had never seen anyone look as bad as this.

"Matthew," he said, taking a step forward. In his voice was an unconvincing attempt to sound positive. Robert had never felt the impulse to imitate Cora's American optimism, and so it didn't come out as effortless as hers would have. It sounded unnatural, and he supposed he'd only tried, because Matthew would appreciate it. Robert _thought_ he would appreciate it anyway.

In fact, the effort was needless. Matthew motioned for him to come closer. When Robert nearly had his ear pressed to Matthew's pale lips, Matthew whispered listlessly, "I… I need – need you to do something."

"Anything. Please tell me what I can do."

The words came out slowly, meandered, but his request was clear. What Matthew wanted was not the desire of a dying and confused man. He meant every syllable. After uttering the sentiments for his mother, he whispered, "Tell Mary I love her. But… if I live, don't tell her _that_."

Robert could not refuse the wishes of his dying son-in-law, of the man who had _saved_ Downton. Not even to tell Matthew that such promises needn't be made. Robert simply agreed.

* * *

It had been eighteen months since the accident had changed their lives, and the weight of it was killing Carson. Medically, there were a whole slew of reasons why he was dying: heart ailments, lung problems, the specific terms ones Carson hadn't bothered to learn; he would be leaving Downton Abbey, his home, his _family_ soon, and that was the important part. There were no cures for a man his age under so much stress, but he knew – and he despised how romantic it sounded – it was the deception that was his undoing.

Knowing that his death was imminent, Carson chose to leave the hospital. He would die as he had lived, where he belonged. Mrs. Hughes had vocalized her suspicions, that he had returned in the hopes that Lady Mary might visit him. At the time he'd denied it.

Now there was no point. His heart was slowing down. This week it had been particularly erratic, at times leaving him shaking and sweating. Today was worse. Today would be the end. _Yesterday_ would have been the end if his wrongs hadn't kept him alive.

He could not pass until he had apologized.

Until he had told Lady Mary the truth.

Having made it through the night, he was resolved to do it. When Lord Grantham had told him that his silence was of utmost importance, Carson hadn't believed him. He had obeyed not out of agreement but out of duty, nothing more. In the following months however, he'd changed his mind. He'd seen the effects of the accident, and as his own body deteriorated, he had come to understand that Lady Mary should be spared the truth.

No one had considered whether she would tolerate such a decision made for her. No one had thought she would ever figure it out. As he waited for her, Carson wondered how they could have been so blind to it. Of all the Crawley children, she had been the most stubborn. Some of the staff disliked her for it; they felt a young lady shouldn't have been so resistant to easy solutions. They no doubt believed that, because she would always lead a life of privilege, she was foolish to cling to Downton Abbey and the inheritance that was by law _not_ hers. But Carson respected that about her. She had spirit. She was not willing to go so far as to throw away everything her heritage had afforded her, but she didn't thoughtlessly accept the life bestowed upon her either.

They should have _never_ , Carson told himself, believed that Mary would remain ignorant. She was too intelligent for that.

He had realized this too late. Even when she'd started to suspect, he'd tried to allay her concern. He had lied. Ever the pragmatic, she'd believed him. With no one to discuss the matter with, she'd come to think that the alternative were possible, but how could it be _really?_ Met with a lie she had yet to recognize, she'd apologized and retreated into the annals of Downton. She had chosen to trust him over the proof she'd seen with her own eyes. It had been proof of the faith he didn't deserve. Carson suspected that was why the falsehood hadn't prevailed. He felt like a scoundrel for abusing her trust, and she must have seen it. She must have known for she eventually began to suspect again. When that happened, none of their lies had been enough to appease her. In her eyes he had seen disbelief, anger, and for a moment, Carson had believed they'd been transported back decades. The woman before him had returned to the little girl he had once known, and if she hadn't been so tall, he might have thought then that he was trying to convince her that Father Christmas existed. As it had been before, it had remained then; she hadn't believed him. They should have predicted this.

They hadn't, but then he supposed it didn't matter. Matthew Crawley's wishes had been clear, and given all he had been through, there was no defying them.

But Mary knew.

The charade continued from then on, despite all involved recognizing the act for what it was. Her anger was born under the lie, her self-imposed isolation the only way she could remain at Downton Abbey with the people who were keeping her from her husband.

Knowing this, Carson would understand if she failed to keep vigil at his deathbed. He had sent their bond on this trajectory; she was just seeing the matter through. He understood that, though the possibility of her absence made his heart pound violently against the confines of his body. He sympathized and knew that he would not be so forgiving in her position, but he wanted to see her. He would die either way.

His predicament weighed heavily, and yet, just when it felt unbearable and he was ready to slip away, the door to his bedroom opened. In anticipation he glanced to see who it was. In relief he realized it was her.

"My Lady," he said shakily, smiling through the pain.

Her dark eyes showed no sign of being pleased to be here. Whether that was because she was furious or sad to see him die, he couldn't be sure.

"Carson." She was coldly dutiful, and to his disappointment, he had an answer. "I was asked to see you. I could not deny a man who has been so kind to me." His heart's beat sped at the sound of her voice. The proverbial chink in the armor revealed, it was enough to quell the feeling of imminent death. For all of her efforts, she couldn't repress her affection for him completely.

He didn't bother to hide his. "I am happy you came. They have told you my condition."

"Of course. I am informed of everything, am I not?" Her tongue sharpened, she was here, but she had not forgiven. She was making that fact known.

"I am afraid that my time is coming to an end," he said slowly. He was having trouble breathing, the air somehow refusing to go where it belonged. "I know it won't be long. I have accepted its inevitability." She frowned at the remark. However long her anger had lingered, there was still enough affection to keep her ambivalent about his suffering. Slightly bolstered, he confessed, "What I cannot accept is dying knowing that I have failed you."

There was no response, no whispered utterance that he had not done as he had believed in her eyes. Although he had marred their relationship with a lie, she wouldn't behave in kind. Instead she turned and shut the door behind her. It was as much a sign as any to continue.

"I thought I was protecting you," Carson explained. "It was hardly an easy task, but as your humbled servant, I felt it was my duty to –"

"I know why you did it," she interrupted impatiently. Stepping closer to him, she sat down in the chair by his bed. "Why everyone participated. You know this isn't what I want to hear. Of course, my father would want to spare me that pain, and you would want the same thing as well for me. That is not what you need to tell me, Carson."

He nodded his head once. As ever her perception was sharp.

"I am sorry," he said weakly. He wished he sounded sure with conviction, but it was becoming harder to breathe. His entire body wracked with each inhale, and the enormity of the confession suddenly felt physically painful. His heart seemed to twist into itself then, his fingers going numb. "I'm sorry," he repeated, the words slurring together though he couldn't understand why.

Mary's brow knitted in sympathy, deep lines of concern etching themselves on her face. "Tell me the truth, and I will forgive you. That's all I need. Then you can rest. I'll have Mrs. Hughes bring you a glass of water."

It was a needless offer. His body was becoming colder. Even as he remained conscious, he could feel the life slipping from his body. A drink wouldn't change that. Her forgiveness would ease his suffering though. And so he blurted out the very thing she had suspected, the unacknowledged truth that was slowly driving her mad:

"Your husband... survived." He swallowed, started over. "Matthew is alive."

The weight was lifted, though the pain had now reached its zenith. Mary's eyes filled with shock and relief. He had finally told her the truth.

He was at peace, and, with Mary by his side, Carson no longer fought the disease killing him. He sighed, smiled, and died.

_To be continued_


	2. Alone

Loose strands of hair bit into the soft flesh of her cheek, turning the normally pale skin into a lattice of cream and pink. The wind was particularly fierce today, the weather bitter to an extent that it seemed better suited to a Charles Dickens work than a child's christening. But neither the cold air nor her personal comfort or even the future Earl of Grantham's baptism had stopped Mary from riding. It was too important to her. In the six months since her husband's death, she had found solace only in the horses and the escape they could provide. Instead of seeking refuge with people, she clung to the hobby as fiercely as she was holding onto the leather reins in her hand.

Of course, those around her tried to console. Everywhere, there seemed to be an acquaintance or friend willing to offer ineffectual words that left Mary in the position of pretending that their platitudes meant something to her. No matter their intentions, she was the one left to comfort them with a portrayal of grief they felt comfortable witnessing.

There was no avoiding those moments either, try as she might. Pity was everywhere, and she had no means to put a stop to it. It would have been impolite to speak the truth, far more embarrassing to do so, so she did what was required. She made _others_ feel better.

Throughout these many months, Mary had come to find the burden to be unbearable. Riding, and its requirement to leave the world of man behind, had become the easiest way to avoid those conversations… at least for a while. Returning to Downton and the well of conflict that created in her was always inevitable. But for a brief hour or longer, Mary could divert her attention away from her loss and the expectations of her that came with it.

She _had_ to redirect her focus when riding. Even if she'd wanted to consider other matters, she didn't have the option to for very long. The tamest of horses could throw her if she weren't careful enough, and in order to control herself, Mary preferred the creatures that had yet to yield themselves completely to anyone's hands.

There was something punishing about it – taking the animal least likely to grant her control and force the beast with tight reins and an eager whip to gallop as harshly as it could go. The black mare beneath her was beginning to sweat, the moisture slowly beginning to seep into the jodhpurs' fabric where Mary's legs met the horse. It felt like success.

She had no intention of riding it into lameness; there was never an intention to hurt. In those moments however, when woman and animal sped as fast as they could away from Downton, the pain was always apparent. The horse would whiny at the sudden demand, and Mary would only think, as dangerous and unwanted as the thought was, if this was what it had been like for Matthew. The method of movement was different, but had the wind she felt now been the same he had felt when driving away from the hospital? Had the stark beauty of Downton amongst the hills and trees taken him aback?

She always forced the questions out of her mind, leaning down so that the horse could go faster. As she had told herself soon after Matthew's death, there was no point in wondering. The answers would be of no consequence.

Her husband was dead. There was nothing to be learned that would make any difference to her – not when he was gone and she was left behind to raise their son alone. What could be said after that to console her? What could be revealed that would help her understand why this had happened to her? Again, there was nothing that could do that, and when that was the case, Mary chose to ride and get lost in the motions of the sport.

For that reason, turning around was the hardest part. It had always been so, but today the decision to return seemed agonizing. At all times, she was aware now that Downton would never be hers; she would never be its countess. The estate would go to her son and his wife. Mary would never be anything more than an inhabitant, as important as a second footman and half as useful. She hadn't become a nurse like Sybil, hadn't fallen into a writing career like Edith. Mary had clung to and fought for a future at Downton. Now she was tied to it inextricably.

It was no longer a happy entanglement.

The impending christening seemed to underline that fact for Mary. Her son would be blessed, as she had been cursed. He would never have to fight to inherit the estate. The law would give it to him, whether he loved Downton Abbey as much as she did or not. He would never know his father, but George would also never know the pain of losing Matthew either. Mary didn't need the baptism to see the luck bestowed upon her child.

She certainly didn't need to see a reminder of it either. Yet she knew she had no choice. To refuse to be seen at her son's christening was not an option. She was not so far gone as to not see how she had to behave. But she took her time returning the horse to the stables, and she was even slower to return to the house.

Of course, the latter might not have been intentional. Keeping the horse under her control had been draining, the cold air leaving her stiff. Even if she'd wanted to rush, she couldn't. Her body wouldn't let her.

As she ambled up the main path, Mary found it hard to want to move faster though. From the short distance, she could see a man who looked like Mr. Molesley leaving with a basket in his hands. It couldn't have been him. He had left Downton Abbey after Matthew had died for….

Mary didn't remember where he had gone actually. She had been told, but at the time, grief had left her thoughtless. If he had returned, she found it mildly interesting but hardly suspicious.

Still when she finally reached the entrance, she asked Carson, who was standing uncomfortably in the doorway, "Was that Mr. Molesley?"

Carson hesitated to answer as though he wasn't sure he should say. Mary supposed his reaction was understandable. Perhaps he thought she wouldn't take seeing her husband's footman well.

"It's all right, Carson," she said when he didn't offered her any explanation. "I've seen him. If you are anticipating an emotional reaction, you can be assured that I am stronger than I seem."

He smiled paternally. "My Lady, if I may say so, it is perfectly clear that you are not wanting in strength or dignity."

"Thank you. Why was Mr. Molesley here?"

"Oh, he was in the village," he said in a manner that seemed awkward, as if he weren't sure that were the truth. "He paid us a visit. Mrs. Patmore and Mrs. Hughes, I'm afraid, have insisted he take a few of the hors d'oeuvres for this evening. I would have stopped him myself, but –"

"I hardly think that will be an issue. I'm sure there will be plenty of food for the dinner. You needn't worry."

He nodded his head. "For you I will not. But, if I may say so, if you don't hurry upstairs now, you will be late and –"

"I promise you I won't be late," she told him reassuringly. "I have no desire to miss this occasion. Anna knows how to work quickly."

As she walked away, she had a passing feeling that she wasn't the only one who was lying.

* * *

The baby squirmed in her arms unhappily. His christening gown was probably uncomfortable, the layers making him warm in the already overly heated room thanks to a fire that had been lit early in the morning. Mary knew, however, that his unhappiness was the result of being held by her.

She could not say definitively that she _didn't_ love him. Having never had a child before, Mary wasn't sure what it was supposed to be like, how it was supposed to feel. When she looked at George, she didn't feel consumed by love for him as she had with his father, but then… romantic love was different. If she felt empty when holding George, perhaps that was all right. She wished him no harm; she cared for him after all. Maybe that was the appropriate response to have.

It didn't feel that way. A voice inside her whispered that, when she'd first held her son, there had been something more, something that had been lost. Yet it was obvious that loss had occurred. If the situation had been different immediately following childbirth, it was because Matthew had been there. He had watched her with their son, and she could see now that it wasn't so much George that had made her feel cherished and complete but rather the gaze of her husband, proud and so deeply in love with her. If something had changed, it was because she had only the possibility of Matthew's specter lingering over her, watching her from beyond.

 _Them_ , she corrected, watching _them_. George's loss was one she had trouble acknowledging. She understood, however, that remembrance would be expected of her. She had to accept that. Holding George now, Mary tried to remind herself that her husband's version of her would include warmth towards their son. _He_ would have demanded more than what she had given their child. But even knowing that, she found she had nothing to offer the boy, no real sympathy.

George would be fine, truth be told. Whether she was a good mother or not, he would be loved. All around her were people who seemed to be more affectionate with her son – nanny of course, her father, her mother, even Edith. He was not left wanting and certainly not of want from _her_. His loud wail was a testament to just how little he liked her.

Trying to suppress her frustration, Mary rocked him in her arms. That just made him cry more.

"That won't work," Edith said knowingly as she entered the nursery. "When he cries like that, he needs –"

"I'm sorry. I must have forgotten that we hired you to be the nanny between writing columns and entertaining the thought of becoming your employer's –"

"Someone should pay attention to him."

"The him referring to my son or your –"

"Your son," Edith said with disgust. "I'm not sure why you're opposed to him having someone who gives him affection."

"I don't know either. Perhaps you could enlighten me on how it feels to be ignored and unloved. Maybe I would learn something."

Edith frowned but mustered up the courage to explain, "He's wet."

"Of course he is." The words could have sounded as though Mary had come to the conclusion that her son needed a nappy change. She hoped that was the message imparted in her response. In truth though, she hadn't deduced the problem. Edith had had to tell her, and if Mary had agreed, it was only on the instinct that her child's habit of being untimely was to be anticipated.

It was cruel to think. His early birth was her fault, not his. If she hadn't insisted on visiting the Highlands, if she hadn't danced, if she had accepted her limitations, she wouldn't have gone into labor. He would have been born when due, and Matthew would not have been driving the day he had died.

 _She_ had killed him, not George.

Yet she held him responsible anyway, at least partly, because if he had never existed….

But he did exist.

He was here, and therefore Matthew was gone. Nothing would change that.

"I'll go get Nanny," Edith said with a hint of judgment, thankfully interrupting the dark turn Mary's thoughts had taken.

Mary shook her head. "I'll do it."

"No," their mother interrupted, announcing her presence as she came into the room. "We don't have time for you to change if you get dirty, and your father doesn't want to be late. Edith, go find Nanny." When Edith had left, Cora turned her attention to Mary. "Be nicer to your sister. She's trying to help."

Placing George back in his crib so he wouldn't soil her, Mary had no inclination to be kind. "She's trying to be his mother."

"That's not true. She loves her nephew, and you should appreciate that her, I'm afraid to admit, _inevitable_ choices will more than likely exclude her from ever having children."

"It's not my responsibility to help dear Edith experience a family by vicariously living through my life."

The answer was expected, as Cora bore the brunt of this never-ending battle with considerable poise. "I suppose it was idealistic of me to think that you might get along, having both lost someone you loved deeply."

Mary wasn't sure how to respond. Tongue licking her lips, she said slowly, "If you mean Sybil –"

"I mean Matthew. Sir Anthony."

"Then I am afraid you are mistaken, Mother. I cannot imagine there are many commonalities for us to share. Though I am sure you would enjoy your daughters commiserating, I lost my husband. One would have to be married in order to lose a husband, would they not?"

There was no time for admonishment. Mary knew precisely what her mother would say, but Edith pushing the door to the nursery open further promptly ended the conversation.

Obviously she had heard the conversation. Speaking over George's whining had made the exchange impossible to miss.

Pink-faced, Edith said, "Nanny will be here in a moment. She was just helping Tom with Sybbie."

As if on cue, Nanny swept into the room and began changing George. Cora looked to Mary as though a simple gaze would initiate an apology. No amount of eye contact could elicit the words from her though. As close as all the tragedy in their lives should have made them, Mary had never felt particularly fond of Edith.

They were sisters in name only.

She feared she would have the same relationship with her son.

It seemed inevitable however. When everyone had finally finished getting ready and climbed into the cars, Mary was eager to hand her son off to someone else, _anyone_ else. Over the last six months, she had learned to no longer pause when getting into the car. Her first thoughts were no longer detailed fantasies of her husband's death. Only the dread and discomfort lingered these days.

She would never let it show. There would be no emotional outbursts to elicit pity. She simply preferred to be quiet, detached from the ride until it was finished.

George ended up in her father's arms on the way to the church. Mary tried not to acknowledge the symmetry of that relationship – a son for the man who had never had one, a father figure for the boy who would never have one. But it was impossible to ignore the cooing coming from George and the doting words her father uttered in response. The rush of the wind over the car couldn't compete with that, and she had no choice but to angle her body and look out the window for a distraction.

Instantly she thought of Matthew, about how this should have been different. Their son was being baptized; she _had_ a son. It should have a joyous day, made more so, because they'd had trouble first conceiving. She should have wanted to be here, a cheek resting on her husband's shoulder while he played with their baby in his lap. She should have been happy to have a child, shouldn't have even had to question whether or not she loved him. Interactions with George shouldn't have felt calculated, been coupled with the constant worry that she wasn't being a proper mother in everyone else's eyes.

In the distance, Mary thought she saw, in the trees whizzing by, a blonde man standing there, watching the car drive past. A quick flutter in her stomach suggested hope, but rationally, Mary knew that she wasn't seeing what she believed to be there. Even as she strained to get a better look, she knew it wasn't real.

She didn't have to blink to know that it was a trick of the eye, a mirage brought on by grief, but she did anyway. When she opened her eyes, she knew once more the pang of loneliness and regretted being left with so little. Again, she recognized that Matthew was truly gone and with him, the love she had once been capable of giving to others. Knowing that though, she couldn't help but think that he should have been here, that her life shouldn't have turned out this way.

Everything should have been so different.

* * *

Sleep had never come easily. The uncertainty of her future had left her planning and preparing for the worst in her youth, which seemed long ago now. Her marriage to Matthew had been brief, as had the time since his death, but it didn't feel that way. Every day with him had been full of happiness, things she'd never experienced before. It hadn't been an eternity, but there had been moments where it had felt like it, where every tiny aspect of an event, every little second had been so precious to her. With him gone, days passed slowly for different reasons. Whatever peace Matthew had once provided had disappeared with him, and her inability to sleep was worse now than ever. Tonight was no exception.

Painfully awake, she sat at her vanity and re-braided her hair. There was no need to, admittedly. Her marital bed was empty. Without anyone to make love to her, to accidentally loosen the ribbon around the end of the braid, there was no reason for a single hair to be out of place. And there wasn't. She looked exactly as she had when Anna had left her. There was little else, however, for Mary to do.

Nanny would take care of the baby. If Mary left a light on to read or spent the night pacing, someone would see or hear surely. Inevitably that information would reach her father or the staff, and she would be scrutinized for an indefinite period of time under the guise of concern. Of all the changes Matthew's death had wrought, being made a spectacle was the one she enjoyed nearly the least and wished to avoid the most.

In truth though, this wasn't terrible. It was too dark to see, but her eyes recognized her form instinctively in the mirror. Her fingers deftly folded and tucked strands of hair without thought or effort. That alone made it a worthwhile use of her time, because finally, when all alone, she didn't have to consider how her actions might be interpreted. There were no prying eyes, no judgments to be wary of. As much as she loved her family, she felt safer when they were asleep.

Still, she had to fight the urge to leave. Something inside of her would never allow her to go permanently; she no longer loved Downton Abbey like she once had, but she couldn't quite see herself anywhere else (she had always lacked the imagination and daring to create a world for herself other than the one she'd been provided with). Yet her feet tingled with the need to move. Even in the darkness of night, her gaze found itself trained on a spot of the lawn through the window. Even now, when she was completely alone, she wanted to escape.

She considered how challenging it would be to get dressed and slip out of her room unnoticed. Perhaps she could manage that, but she would have more difficulty reaching the stables without calling attention to herself. And then of course there was the problem of what she would do if she were to get to the horses. Again, she would never leave _permanently_. At most, she would ride until exhaustion necessitated sleeping. She wasn't sure that was a feasible course of action however.

Her attention narrowing itself on the sky, she could see through the windowpane that the moon was small tonight. Without that light, it would be impossible to tell where she was directing the horse. Wanting to leave did not include the desire to be hurt.

She didn't understand why that was. Her life had no purpose now. Her husband had given that to her – not just because she had become someone's wife, but because through him, she had received everything she'd always wanted. But what did she have now? A son who favored everyone but her? A home that she would never run, never master?

She had pity.

In losing her husband, she had regained the respect rumors of Mr. Pamuk had cost her. As a widow, she was remade innocent. The tarnish wiped away, she still felt _cursed_ , and it made her question what she was holding on to.

Why did she care about getting hurt? What would it matter, really?

Mary sighed and forced herself to abandon the bleak thoughts that plagued her. She would _not_ continue down that road. Whatever was holding her back, it was enough that she could never act on the dark urges she possessed. She was stuck.

Moving to sit in front of the window, she rested her head against the cool glass. Scouring the lawn for something she couldn't see, she waited for a sign that something good would come from all this misery.

* * *

She wasn't sure if she was awake or dreaming. Her mouth and eyes were dry, her throat scratchy. A chill ran through her spine as she sat up. A hand rubbed her throbbing forehead, which ached and was cool to the touch. Had she fallen asleep against the window, or was she still sleeping? She was too uncomfortable for this to be anything but real, but the world around her confused her, felt different. It didn't seem like she was awake.

It was still dark outside, misting. She thought, if she had woken up at all, that she'd been asleep long enough for it to be day once more. Her bed was tantalizing on the other side of the room, but she couldn't move. She was compelled to stay where she was as though an invisible hand forced her to remain seated in the chair she'd pulled over.

Her eyes fluttered shut once more, but a voice whispered for them to open. For reasons unknown to her, Mary listened.

Instantly through the rain droplets that clung to the window's glass, she saw something. She didn't know how to describe it. A shadow, perhaps, but then it could not have been that, as the night would only cloak a dark figure lurking in front of Downton Abbey. Movement then? She didn't like that description either. There was nothing moving.

She blinked again to clear her vision. When she looked out the window again though, there was nothing to see.

Yet something was _there_.

Even as she wanted to believe it was a trick of the imagination, Mary was convinced otherwise. _Something_ had found its way to Downton.

Without thinking, she got up and reached for her dressing gown. Before the idea could even fully form in her head, she was wrenching the bedroom door open; she would find out what it was.

Apprehension and exhilaration accompanied each step. Shoes would have been practical, but curiosity overruled prudence, and once she had started down the steps, there was no turning back. She had seen something. No. Rather, she had _felt_ something. She needed to know what it was.

Her feet hurried down the steps, eyes trained on the doorknob with a heated sense of urgency. There was no consideration for how she looked or who might see her. She didn't think about what might be on the other side of the door, what or who might be outside at this time of night.

She simply rushed towards the door, not even looking through the windows to see if she could see someone, and pulled it open.

There was no one there though. Her eyes searched the grounds for a sign of someone, _something_.

But there was nothing.

She stepped out into the soft rain and was again met with nothing.

She wanted to say she didn't know what she'd expected, but Mary understood in a moment of clarity that could only mean she was awake: she'd hoped for Matthew. She'd hoped that, against all odds, her husband had survived. She'd fooled herself, somehow, into believing that he would be there, that if she looked for him, he would come. But as the last six months had proven, that wasn't going to happen.

Matthew was dead.

She was alone.

_To be continued_


End file.
